by Ian Douglas
“Agreed, sir. Of course, the problem may solve itself.”
“Eh? How?”
“Staff Sergeant Houston has been fairly vocal about his desire for a discharge. He’s got six years in-service subjective. He’s got four more on this enlistment, but that could easily be waived, because his objective is twenty-six years. In light of the circumstances, we might give him a choice—take a reduction in grade, or get out, COG.”
“Convenience of the Government. Okay, but would that send the right message to the rest of them?”
“I think so, sir. One thing about the MIEU Marines…they are tight, a lot tighter even than other Marine units I’ve served with. They don’t have many ties or connections with the civilian world, a lot of ’em have no family ties at all, so the Corps really is family, all the family a lot of these kids have. They also see themselves as the best…the best of the best, really.”
“That’s because they are.”
“Yes, sir. To get demoted a pay grade, that’s nothing. But to be demoted to civilian…well, yes, sir. I think the rest of them will get the message loud and clear.”
“Do you think Houston will take that option—if you give it to him?”
“I don’t know, sir. He’s a good Marine. But he’s also been pretty loud about wanting out, to the point of being obnoxious about it. It’ll be interesting to see which way he goes.”
“I’ll leave it in your hands then, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir. One more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Speaking of ‘what are you going to do about it’…we need SMUs.”
“They’re not in the appropriations budget. You know that.”
“That, sir, is pure crap and you know it. If nothing else, the debacle in that training exercise yesterday proves it. We need suit maneuvering units. A complete Mark VIII vac armor unit costs…what? About three-quarters of a million new-dollars? An SMU, complete with control hardware and a software link to the Marine’s implant, would add, I don’t know…maybe ten percent? Seems a worthwhile investment to safeguard that expensive armored suit, if nothing else.”
“I know that. You know that. Some people responsible for military appropriations in Washington do not know that.” Ramsey shook his head sadly. “Between you and me, I think they’re afraid of wasted bullets.”
“Wasted bullets, sir?”
“The classic misapplication of budgetary power back in the twentieth century. The Army resisted adopting weapons capable of full-auto fire—despite those weapons’ clear superiority in combat—because some of the brass hats in the Pentagon thought they would encourage the soldiers to waste ammunition.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Hell, a century before that, the War Department made a similar argument against magazine-loaded weapons that could fire more than once without reloading. Lincoln himself had to push through the requisition for Spencer repeating carbines, after he got a chance to play with one on the back lawn of the White House.”
Warhurst blinked. “My God. You’re saying they’re afraid Marines will use them if they’re issued?”
“Essentially, yes. Use them and get into trouble playing Buck Rogers.”
“You know, sir, I would rather have to chew out a few Marines for grab-assing with their suit thrusters than lose those Marines because they missed their DZ in a pod dump. Damn it, we’re not going to have work pods and brooms standing by to pick up the ones who miss the stargate. What happens when a man in an armored suit sails past the ring structure and into the central opening of that thing?”
“Best guess is he ends up…someplace else. A very long way from Sirius.”
“With no way to get back. That is unacceptable, Colonel.”
“Agreed, Captain. I’ve been working on that. General Dominick has been working on it. Maybe we’ll see some action. Maybe we won’t.”
“If we do, we’re going to need training time, learning how to handle a suit with thrusters.”
“I know. And…speaking of training time, you’re going to need to set up an outdoor target range.”
“Oh?”
“We may not have SMUs, but we do have the new issue of laser rifle. LR-2158-A1. No backpack. No cables. Just a butt-stock battery you clip in and discard after about five hundred shots.”
“Outstanding.”
“We’re the first unit receiving them as general issue. Company Commanders are responsible for distributing them to the men and setting up weapons orientation sessions with them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“General Ramsey?” another voice said, speaking out of the empty air above the desk. Warhurst knew that voice—Cassius, the Command Constellation’s AI. He noticed the program’s use of the word “general” but said nothing. So the colonel had gotten his star! Excellent. He deserved it.
“Yes, Cassius?”
“This might also be an apt time to apprise him of the civilian component of the expedition.”
Warhurst cocked an eyebrow. “‘Civilian component’? Oh, shit. Not again!”
Ramsey sighed. “I’m afraid so.”
“PanTerra?”
Ramsey nodded. “They have the best exoarcheological department going.”
“Mm. They must also have the best lobby going in Washington. They have a nerve signing onto this op after that business with Norris and General King.”
Gavin Norris had been a PanTerran corporate representative on the Ishtar mission, and King, evidently, the mission commander, had been in their pay. PanTerra, it turned out, had been less interested in acquiring ancient An technology than they’d been in the idea of importing large numbers of Sag-ura to Earth. Those modern descendents of human slaves taken to Ishtar millennia ago had for at least six thousand years been bred for docility and obedience. Apparently, PanTerra had seen a ready market for them as domestic servants in a wealthy culture that no longer found status in household robots.
Slavery, in other words.
“What happened on Ishtar, we’re told, was the responsibility of a few people working on their own and without the sanction of their chain of command. The situation, I have been informed, has been dealt with.”
Warhurst sighed. “So who are we baby-sitting this time?” He brightened. “Is Dr. Hanson coming on this one?”
“Negative. The chief exoarcheologist will be Dr. Paul Franz. He has two people working for him. The PanTerra rep will be Cynthia Lymon. They’ve already signed agreements to the effect that they will take orders from me or my command constellation. They will not blink without prior authorization.”
“Maybe, sir. But they are civilians.”
“And we’re working for the civilian government, Captain. Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just one more thing.” He reached into his desk.
“Sir?”
Ramsey handed him a folder. “Congratulations, Major. Your promotion just came through.”
He took the folder, opened it, and glanced at the contents. “Thank you, sir!” He knew he was up for the promotion review board—he had the time in, subjective—but since he knew he was slated to boss Alpha Company, he’d thought they were going to wait. A company commander was almost always a captain.
“Don’t thank me, son,” Ramsey told him. “All we’re doing is adding another twenty kilos to your ruck. I still want you as CO of Alpha Company. You have the experience I need in that billet. But I also want you working with Lieutenant Colonel Maitland as Battalion Executive Officer.” He grinned. “Twice the work for a little more pay, and four times the headaches.”
Warhurst made a wry face. “Thanks a lot, sir.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m just spreading the joy. They did it to me, too.”
He grinned. “I heard Cassius call you ‘general.’ Congratulations!”
Ramsey nodded. “Seems they wanted a general running the show, even though an MIEU isn’t much more than a pumped-up battalion. I think they’re nervous about junior officers running the show without the
wisdom of Higher Authority.”
In current Marine organizational tables, ten men—three fire teams of three plus a staff or gunnery sergeant—made up a squad. Four squads formed a platoon, organized in two sections, A and B, and headed by a lieutenant. Four platoons and a headquarters element made a company, under the command of a captain, for a total of around 175 Marines.
Normally, four companies and an HQ element made up a battalion, under a major or a light colonel, while two battalions and a command constellation formed a regiment, for a total of around fifteen hundred Marines commanded by a colonel.
A Marine Interstellar Expeditionary Force, however, was expected to be the ultimate in fully autonomous infantry, capable of operating independently with absolutely no higher-level support. In the environs of another star, reinforcements and resupply were one hell of a long way away. It was organized as a single reinforced battalion—five companies as a ground combat element, or GCE—plus an aerospace combat element and a MIEU service support group. The ACE included the unit’s TAVs, or transatmospheric vehicles, which were used to shuttle troops from orbit to a planetary surface, and their TRAPs, the transfer pods.
All together, MIEU-1 numbered about twelve hundred men and women. Colonel—no, Warhurst caught himself—General Ramsey would be in overall command of the GCE, the ACE, and the MSSG. Lieutenant Colonel Howard Maitland would command the GCE, designated First Bn, while he, Warhurst, ran Alpha Company of First Bn and served as the GCE’s exec.
Having the officers wear two hats in the chain of command was fairly common practice. Space was short on an interstellar transport, with no room for supernumeraries or redundant HQ personnel. In the MIEU, the old Corps axiom that every man was a rifleman was more true than ever.
That was why Warhurst particularly disliked having the civilians along. He was willing to believe that Norris had been an aberration, that PanTerra’s involvement on this mission was strictly legit…but he would have been a lot happier if Franz, Lymon, and the other two had been Marines—and able to haul their own mass.
But, as Ramsey had pointed out, the Marines worked for the government—the civilian government. He was willing to bet that the primary motivator for most of MIEU-1’s personnel would be to find out what had happened to the Isis and her personnel. Marines never left their own behind. Washington’s principal concerns, he knew, would be broader in scope—nothing less than the survival of the human species. Had Isis been destroyed by the Hunters of the Dawn? Was the Sirius Gate built by them or by another ancient civilization of starfarers? Did either pose a threat to Earth? And was there anything in the Sirius system that would be useful to humankind, something in the way of ancient high technology?
Which was why the civilians were along, taking up the room and the consumables of four Marines.
What was needed, Warhurst decided, was a training program to give Marines the skills necessary to check out exoarcheological sites and technology. Those could become new NEC skills, like electronics maintenance, TAV pilot, or weapons system specialist/plasma gun.
But they would still be Marine riflemen, first and foremost.
Quarterdeck
UFR/USS Chapultepec
1444 hours, GMT (Shipboard time)
By long-standing tradition, the place where you came aboard on any naval vessel was designated the quarterdeck, an area designated by the commanding officer for the conduct of official functions, and as the station manned by the officer of the deck. In the days of the ancient Greeks and Romans, it was the site of a shrine to the gods watching over the ship, and religious ceremonies were held there.
Twenty-five hundred years later, the quarterdeck was still a place of ritualistic ceremony. Military personnel coming on board were expected to salute the ensign aft, then the Officer of the Deck, requesting permission to come onboard.
On a starship, however, with the quarterdeck in zero-G, certain adjustments had to be made. Coming aboard was still something of a ceremony, but often less than decorous.
Navy Lieutenant Eric Walther Boyce had the duty. He was wearing Velcro booties—shoes were prohibited in the zero-G areas of the ship, even for full-dress occasions—which kept him anchored to the deck. A Marine lieutenant floated headfirst through the open hatch. Holding himself stiff, he saluted the American flag painted on the quarterdeck’s aft bulkhead, then rotated slightly and saluted Boyce. “Permission to come onboard, sir.”
Boyce returned the salute. Technically, Navy personnel did not salute inside, but a special case was made for the quarterdeck. “Granted. Palm here.”
The Marine placed his palm on the clip PAD screen Boyce held out for him. A screen at the OOD station lit up with the man’s name, rank, and other ID data, along with a partial copy of his orders.
“Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Gansen. You’re commanding Alpha/1/1?”
“Thank you, sir. That’s right.”
“Link into the ship’s guide. The voice will lead you to your hab deck.”
“Right. Uh…listen. They nabbed me as baby-sitter dirt-side. I have some special guests in tow.” He extended a data card to Boyce. “Four civilians, with the corporate team.”
Boyce plugged the card into his board and scanned the ID data. “Franz. Castello. Valle. Lymon. Very well. Bring them aboard.”
“They don’t have their space legs yet, sir. It might be best to bounce ’em onboard.”
Boyce grinned. “I’ll call a couple of ratings to lend a hand.”
Minutes later, with two Navy enlisted men positioned farther down the corridors leading into Chapultepec’s bowels, Boyce positioned himself above the open hatch and called out, “Right, Xing! Start passing ’em along!”
“Aye aye, sir!” a voice called up the long tunnel of the shuttle docking tube. “On the way!”
Seconds passed. Then a woman emerged from the hatch, doubled into a tuck, her knees against her chest, her arms folded around her legs. She was held in that position by a light harness of broad, plastic straps. Boyce caught her lightly, arresting her zero-G flight with practiced ease.
“Name?” Boyce asked.
“Cynthia Lymon. PanTerra military liaison.”
“Welcome aboard, ma’am.”
Boyce pivoted, then gave her a hard shove, sending her flying through an open companionway leading off at right angles to the entry hatch. He turned back in time to catch the next passenger, an older man.
“I must protest this treatment, damn it! It is most undignified!”
“Sorry, sir,” Boyce said. “Your name?”
“Dr. Paul Randolph Franz! Get me out of this contraption!”
“In just a minute, sir,” Boyce told him, before giving him a shove down the passageway after Lymon. The next passenger to sail onboard was Dr. Vitorrio Castello, and after that Dr. Marie Valle. The harness arrangement had been found to be an effective way to keep someone new to weightlessness from flailing about and injuring themselves or someone else. But as Franz had said, it was not a dignified means of coming onboard.
“I’d better go find the good doctor and help him settle in,” Boyce said. “And maybe try to soothe some ruffled feathers.”
“Good luck, Lieutenant. He did not look pleased.”
“You know what? I could give a shit. Sir.” He saluted. “By your leave?”
“Carry on, Lieutenant.”
And then the first of the enlisted FNGs began coming aboard. They’d had some zero-G training already so they weren’t tucked into ball harness, but they were clumsy and awkward and tended to bump into bulkheads.
And Boyce had his hands full getting them squared away.
It was going to be, he thought, an interesting deployment.
Warhurst’s Office
UFR/USS Chapultepec
1725 hours, GMT (Shipboard time)
Chalker, his personnel assistant, stepped into the room. “Major? Staff Sergeant Houston here to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Houston stepped through the hatch
and came to attention. The orderly slipped out, closing the door behind him.
“You wanted to see me, Staff Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for your time.”
“Make it brief.”
“Aye aye, sir. Uh…I understand…I mean, the scuttlebutt is….”
“Spit it out, Staff Sergeant.”
“Sir. I want to stay in the Corps. Sir.”
Warhurst was startled. “Oh? I thought you couldn’t wait to get out.”
“I’ve changed my mind, sir.”
Warhurst leaned back in his seat. “At ease, Houston. Tell me more.”
“Well, I heard that I was going to be given a choice at my mast…get busted or get out.”
The intelligence network of the enlisted Marines, Warhurst thought, was nothing short of amazing. They seemed to know what was going to happen long before the brass even made up its mind.
“It’s hardly proper to discuss your mast with your commanding officer before the fact, Staff Sergeant.”
“No, sir. I just…I just wanted you to know ahead of time. It’ll save time and bother all around. Sir.”
“I see.” Warhurst considered the man for a moment. He was a good Marine, a veteran of Ishtar. He didn’t want to lose him. “What made you change your mind?”
“It’s Earth, sir. The place is crazy.”
Warhurst smiled. “That’s nothing new.”
“No, I mean it’s really crazy. I’ve been using the local network to link in with the global Net, y’know?”
“Go on.”
“It’s like I’m a stranger, sir. I don’t get the jokes. I don’t understand the politics. The vidstreams and sensory movies just leave me cold. I don’t understand the plots and story lines, if there are any. And the people, the civilians, especially, look at me like I was some kind of freak.”
“You’ve just been out of the cultural mainstream a while, Sergeant. You’d adapt.”
“Maybe. I don’t think I’d want to become one of them. At least here I know what the score is.”
“Well, I can appreciate your problem. I find I don’t fit in either. But then, I’m a career Marine.”
“I’m beginning to think the same thing about myself, sir.” He hesitated. “Question, sir?”
